Ocean
by freezinginbristol
Summary: Because it's a long process waking up after drowning in your own skin. America knows this better than anyone. [FACE Family]


**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS.**

She can see the ocean sometimes in his gaze.

Something vast and constant on the surface but underneath she only has a second to see his mood shift and she only has a second to see if he'll hold on or fall of the edge completely, lost down there in a dark filled with blue and nothing.

Now she swears she can't see anything but storms.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the hum of the air conditioner, wincing at the creak of his bed and how he could never seem to find any comfortable position. If he strains his ears he can hear the sound of her moving downstairs, and further the sound of bustling New York, and then impossibly close the low drumming of his own heartbeat.

God, he wishes it wasn't at times.

His sister is all smiles and ready for work by the time he comes downstairs, looking at the plate of eggs and bacon and pancakes with coffee while she sits cross legged on his couch and opens the weather beaten copy of Mice and Men.

He will pretend breakfast is just another wave.

* * *

Later, he imagines the ocean pouring from his stomach as he hunches over the porcelain bowl and the knock knock knocking on the bathroom door doesn't dispel him from the high that he is floating on.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later he's all smiles and grins to a pair of green eyes that stain his childhood.

Are you alright? And he prays that England doesn't see him twitch like a spider.

 _Absolutely fantastic._

* * *

She comes on a Tuesday.

Her bag is set down and jacket thrown over a chair to look around the kitchen and find his cupboards mostly empty. The refrigerator is a low hum of electricity and artificial light housed in an empty space save for a few odd items. Madeline lifts her head from inside the fridge, turning to slam into his chest with a exclamation. He doesn't react, eyes following her movements before the words come out.

"What are you doing here?"

When she stumbles with an answer and for an explanation from him, he only scoffs, reaching past her to slam the fridge shut.

* * *

It is morning and he is hungry.

It is afternoon and he is hungry.

It is midnight and he is hungry.

* * *

She tries to ignore the common movements of his pacing and standing and running at 2 in the morning.

But then again, he'll never notice her looking.

* * *

Her fingers are like a magnifying glass.

His back seems at a permanent arch, even more so from where her fingers trace along his spine, one leg tucked between his calf and she presses her face into his shoulder.

"Try."

And he does, every single minute and he tries to ignore the constant ache in his stomach and in his chest every single day but now-

Now there's nothing left in either of them it seems.

Alfred take a shuddering breath in and turns to speak, only to be met with an empty space and unrumpled sheets.

* * *

He flinches now if anyone even looks at him, and it doesn't even seem to stop with the concerned gazes of history and sorrow looking at him from across a table.

Why are you doing this? The man with green eyes that stain his childhood asks the question as if it is anything but a lead ball in his stomach. The man with sunshine in his smile echoes the same question in his gaze, and he can't understand how calm he is despite it all falling apart.

The paper isn't anything of a surprise, but he has to admit the signing off from his leader of releasing him into his parent's custody is something like a punch in the gut. Thin fingers sign on the line and he places the pen down before his fingers move towards his mouth in an effort to distract himself from the obvious.

 _So close._

In the evening,dinner is something of a hell for all of them, and he can feel their gazes as untouched food remains the same over a space of twenty minutes before he places his unused napkin beside his plate and leaves the table. Canada visibly winces, and bites the inside of her cheek as the echoes of at least seven years for recovery comes back in her mind from earlier.

She would appreciate it if their immortal lives weren't so.

* * *

The man with a cloud on his head, like a grey storm and eyes that seemed too young in such a body is very kind.

America can tell that much at least, and only gives soft, empty, one word responses of yes and no to any of his questions, though Dr. Stevens doesn't seem that dissuaded. Long fingers fiddle with the material of his sweater, tips ghosting over his knuckles that are covered with thin, unsightly scars.

Do you want to get better?

America bites his lip, teeth digging into dry, chapped skin before he gets up, moving past the small enclosure and past the questions of his parents and down the stairs, pushing open the door and keeps walking.

Down a block and turn where they pick up speed and

Into the street where a driver misses a light and

A car slams into him like he was made of nothing but air and light and sound and sweet, sweet, sweet release and-

* * *

He hates his parents.

He hates his sister.

He hates the world.

Not as much as much as he hates himself, with his pride and greed and insecurity and goddamned hero complex that never seemed to go away no matter what he tried to do-

No.

Never as much as he hates Alfred F. Jones.

* * *

He blinks.

The still tick ticking of the clock and the man with the cloud on his head like a grey storm is looking at him and he does none of the aforementioned things.

Sunlight from the early morning spills onto the floor, and he remembers the utter emptiness in his stomach at the sight of redness in his sister's eyes and the shakiness of her breath from that morning. Forty minutes later, he steps out to the quiet conversations of Stevens and Arthur, moving to sit by his papa, who begins to speak of colder weather in a smooth rush of French.

He wishes his mind was the same way.

* * *

"Do you hate me?"

The question is phrased oddly, like a missed rhythm in the space of his brain and mouth that lost who it was being directed at in the end. Still, England looks up from his book at the sight of America in the doorway, lean and lost with his fingers constantly playing with the material of his long sleeved shirt.

Arthur blinks, and America winces at the sudden feeling of hurt and guilt and _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ in his chest after so long a period of being nothing but empty air. He doesn't feel himself moving, but the whimper that comes out of his throat is enough for his father's hand to rest on his shoulder and pull him down to the couch. England hushes him, breathing 'I love you' into the kisses pressed into his hair.

America shakes and shakes and shakes.

* * *

The house itself is oddly quiet, despite the occasional rumble from Kuma and the low hum of the TV in Madeline's home. They had come from a silent car ride to here at the request of Alfred, as if they didn't have enough to worry about with the stalemate between their children.

France is tracing the lines of England's palm while they watch some mindless antique show on PBS, and he smirks to himself at his husband's quiet mockery of "real british tea sets" before there is a thump heard from the other side of the house.

Kuma is up first, a slow moving mass of white fur and sleep before France and England, and they all turn the corner to the sight of her books on the opposite side of the room with a dent in the wall and their daughter crying into America's neck.

If he noticed them, he doesn't make any acknowledgement, moving his sister from her position on the floor and over to the couch, where her legs wrap around his too thin frame and his hands move to run up and down her back and curl into her hair.

Their parents leave then, as something of a solidarity for the two of them as he rocks her back and forth and tries to ignore the feeling disgust at himself for letting anyone see him as ugly as he was-

Stop.

Rewind.

He holds her, fingers tracing up and down the grove of her spine. Canada shudders, and he brushes back the hair from her face as some form of comfort before pressing his lips against her forehead.

Replay.

He loves Madeline.

He loves Madeline.

He loves Madeline.

* * *

Can we go to the beach? Alfred asks one cloudy morning.

He does not want to go to the beach.

France smiles, and it's strange at the sense of normalcy on the surface of the question, with the four of them driving in silence in the car before parking at the practically empty lot. It's too cold to do anything else but walk, both he and Arthur know that. Still, they trail far behind the sight of their children as America bends to pick up a stone before his sister inspects it and tries to skip it on the dark water.

Arthur sighs, and the weight of their worry and protectiveness that hasn't died over the years despite everything seems to be reflected in the heaviness of the cloudy morning.

Canada and America fall asleep in the backseat on the long drive home, an awkward tangle of limbs and fatigue and cold skin and something of an ache reaches both the nations' hearts as they unbuckle seatbelts and hoist the sleeping figures to their chests, carrying them from the car and up the stairs.

Alfred wakes to the humming of England's voice as he moves around the room, putting clothing away in his own closet, and the form of his sister snuggles closer to him in her sleep. He closes his eyes again, and tries to go back to the dream of the ocean surrounding him as he floats underneath the sky.

 _Under a bright, blue endless sky_

 _Waves try to measure the days that we treasured_

 _With hello and then goodbye._

The song his father sings fills the back of his brain, and eventually puts him back to sleep, despite the emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Three days and he's not sure if he's able to make it, the sight of shoulder blades like wings giving him some sense of sick pride and he hates and hates and hates-

Her hand is on his shoulder, moving down to grasp his hand in hers and bringing it up to kiss the raised skin of his wrists from past mistakes and grievances.

He was always too much, even back then.

Later, she holds him as he wakes from another nightmare of battlefields and gunshots and music in the background before a bullet entered into his brain- "put a bullet in me" he whispers- and she soothes him amongst cold and choking sheets, kissing"you're beautiful" into his wrists and his hair and his brain.

He cries.

* * *

Three weeks and he's gained enough courage to actually allow her back into his headspace, the familiar warmth of her illuminating his brain like some kind of drug.

His eyes meet hers from across the breakfast table, a mix of guilt and anxiety despite the medication and therapy sessions. France's hand is a calm reminder to breathe, palm squeezing his shoulder and kiss dropped into his hair puts the air into his lungs before he picks up his fork.

Canada gives a slight smile, taking a bite of the eggs on her plate. Stop. Rewind. Replay.

He follows suit.

* * *

Three months and he's-

 _Better?_

He opens his eyes to the hum of the air conditioner and settles himself somewhat deeper into the cool sheets. If he strains his ears, he can hear the wind moving outside through the almost bare trees and if he brings it impossibly close he can hear the drumming of his own heartbeat.

Moving might be a better term, albeit slowly.

He will try today, and try he does, moving past his sister's bedroom and down the stairs, before opening the fridge and steadying himself at the array of f-

Stop.

Array of food. And he closes his eyes, hand reaching out and grabbing the first random selection (thankfully, leftover pancake batter in a container).

Rewind.

She comes down the stairs, bleary eyed and still drowsy to the sight of him in the kitchen, teeth biting at fingernail stubs as he stares at the circle of pancake batter, waiting for it to solidify. America's eyes lift up to meet hers, and she smiles, moving around him to turn on the radio and let the low hum of music fill the quiet house.

"Do you want strawberries?" she asks, opening up the fridge and he steels himself, blinking once, twice.

Replay.

Breakfast is just another wave.

America gives a steady exhale, fingers playing at the material of his sleeves, scars on knuckles finally managing to fade away.

"Sure."


End file.
